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Fic: Six Months [3a/6]

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 09:49:18 GMT

Title: Six Months
Author: crayola123/sunrisepride
Pairing: Brian/Michael
Fandom: Queer As Folk US
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: Totally and completely and 100% not mine. Srsly.
Author's Notes: This is part 3A (as in part 1 of Month Three -- boy is this getting complicated, I mean really), and therefore there will be a second part in the not too distant future \o/! However, I have a mega-hectic week ahead and a load of prep work to do before I go back to school, so I'm sorry if it is a week or so in coming. In the meantime I really appreciate all comments and criticisms anyone can offer :)

Extra A/N's: Title for this chapter is taken from 'Shooting Star' by Air Traffic (I encourage you to download it; it's a great song!), just say the word and I will upload it right away :) Also inspired by this prompt over at we_are_cities.
Previous Chapters: (Month) One. / (Month) Two; "We All Talk Like Liars."

Three.

"You're Too Good To Lose."

Brian flies out to New York alone. The only people who know that he is going are Cynthia and Ted and Justin. No-one else knows, and Brian highly doubts that anyone else cares. It's been a lonely few weeks.

He arrives a little earlier than expected, but he flags down a cab and mutters out the directions he has memorized and goes ahead, anyway. The cab driver is bald and sweaty and asks him the same questions over and over for the first ten minutes or so, before Brian runs out of sarcastic remarks and sinks into a stony silence. The not-right is back. The cab driver gives up his attempts at conversation.

Brian looks up at the building in distaste when the car comes to a halt, and thinks to himself how much of a step-down it is compared to the Loft; his Loft. He wonders if it's worth it, and asks the driver if this is the correct address.

"It's where you told me," the driver says, gruffer than before. "That'll be cash, please."

Brian pays him and makes a promise to himself to bring his own car, next time. If there is a next time.

Brian gets out of the car and brushes down his clothes; the breeze blows his hair across his face as he looks up at the grey brickwork and metal banisters and overflowing trash cans. He wonders how he ever fell for an artist. The cab is gone in seconds.

Brian is greeted by a couple more artsy types, and is offered a seat on distasteful fall-down sofas in bright, gaudy colors, and tea. Tea. Brian says, "No. Thank you," and almost makes it not-sarcastic. The girl with red glasses and curly hair tells him that Justin is out at the deli two blocks away buying bagels and proper coffee if he can find it, because he knows that that is what Brian likes.

"We've heard so much about you," she says, and smiles a lot. The boy with dyed black hair, who is not a boy but still looks it to Brian, stays silent, but stares a lot.

Brian smirks a little and says, "I wish I could say the same about you."

"Justin talks about you all the time," the girl continues. She sounds a lot like Daphne, Brian thinks. "He says you have this super amazing apartment with all imported Italian furniture and top-end appliances, and like, killer views." She pauses to smile some more. "Not like here." She gestures at the threadbare carpets and the walls crammed full of artwork. It makes it feel dark, and cluttered, although the otherwise limited possessions contradict such an impression.

"I guess not," Brian says slowly, and he doesn't know whether to laugh, or make fun of them. He doesn't know these people, and he doesn't know this Justin; this young early-twenties Justin, with bright views and bagels. The idea of their relationship (previous, or otherwise) being discussed amongst this little group of friends makes Brian feel considerably uncomfortable. It's all so teenage, so young, so immature. Brian feels old, and that makes him bitter. He decides that he dislikes these happy-go-lucky people who know all about him through hear-say; through the rose-colored glasses of Justin Taylor. As far as they know, he has a killer apartment and is great in bed, and has flown out to visit Justin out of the kindness of his heart. They do not know Brian Kinney The Asshole. They do not know Brian Doesn't-Believe-In-Love-Believes-In-Fucking Kinney. They do not know him.

"Will you be staying for long?" the girl is asking, sweetly.

Brian half-grimaces, half-smiles, and he feels claustrophobic, suddenly, in this tiny apartment with these young artsy New Yorkers with their bagels and paintings and hair-dye. Brian should be working at Kinnetik, or dancing with other men (not boys) in Babylon, or out buying another Armani suit, because he can never have enough.

So he says, "Not long," in a tight voice, and glances at his watch.

The girl's face drops and she says, "Oh. Justin will be so disappointed. Won't he be disappointed, Eric?" She elbows the boy with dyed black hair.

Eric glares at her, and moves the look over to Brian. "I'm sure he'll get over it," he says, stiffly, and looks hard and piercing at Brian. Brian knows that look. That look is jealousy and possessiveness and knowing that the other man is better; the winner. Brian knows then that he and Justin are fucking, and he half-smiles at his own hands, and thinks again of how young these people are, really. Really.

"Don't worry, I won't keep him from you for long," Brian says smoothly, and smiles patronizingly, and feels power in the darkening of the boy's eyes. Schoolboy, he thinks. Dreamy-eyed schoolboy.

"Don't worry," the girl says brightly. She has dimples when she smiles. "We won't bother you. When Justin gets back Eric and I will pop out and give you guys some privacy. I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do."

Not really, Brian thinks, because he saw Justin just over a month ago, and they've emailed, and spoken on the phone, and really, so what if they don't see each other face to face? Is it really that much of a difference? Brian wonders what they ever had to talk about, really; what did he ever have to say to a seventeen year old? He doesn't have anything to say to these polite, friendly twenty-one and twenty-two-year-olds. Why is Justin any different?

The emails have been getting shorter, Brian knows. Of course he knew, he just didn't quite let himself acknowledge it. But then again, Brian doesn't ever remember Justin and him talking all that much to begin with; mostly it was just sex, and fighting, and make up sex, and give-and-taking.

Brian suddenly regrets coming. He regrets telling Ted and Cynthia and giving Justin the okay, and the flight and the cab-ride, and everything.

Brian misses Michael, and the time when conversation was easy.

The door opens, and Justin tumbles through in a grey turtle neck and jacket, with brown paper bags in his arms. "Hey," Justin calls, before he turns. Then, "Hey. Brian, I thought your flight wasn't 'til four?"

Brian can feel Eric glowering and the girl smiling, delighted, and Brian wants to roll his eyes and leave more than anything. Instead, Brian gets to his feet, and stands with his arms outstretched in a here-I-am sort of greeting, in his expensive black shirt and well-fitting black jeans that probably cost more than the entire month's rent of this place. He cocks an eyebrow at Justin and knows with a sinking feeling in his chest that this is the last time.

So he smiles at him, and tries not to be ironic, and says, "Surprise," with his arms outstretched and his voice all low and rough, because he always did want to go out with a bang.

***

When Brian gets home he calls the office and makes further arrangements, and checks his email. Inbox satisfactorily empty, he returns to the phone, and hits play on his voicemail. He has one new message from a slightly hysterical Cynthia about the short notice on his departure, which is interrupted mid-way through by reliable Theodore, who makes several extremely compelling points about why Brian should stay home, and work, and how his finances aren't going to survive this kind of thing for much longer, not with all the money pouring into Babylon to get it fixed and ready as soon as possible.

Brian leans back in his chair, runs a hand over his face, and sighs. He hits delete.

A thought strikes, clear and blinding, as he does so, and he pauses, finger hovering over the buttons on the small machine. But, fuck it, fuck it; he presses play, and listens, and his gut does that stupid strange lurch, like it always does, and Brian's head just aches. It's the fifth time he's listened to it; only that's a lie, it's been more, many more, but he just won't quite admit it. Can't. It's Michael.

And he can't listen to it, after all, he can't listen to Michael say this, again; he can't know this. So he turns it off quick, cuts Michael off at the, "Just, you don't have to," with a finger that almost trembles.

Fuck, Michael. Fuck you.

He hesitates another moment, and this isn't Brian Kinney; Brian Kinney doesn't hesitate, or hold onto badly thought-out voicemail messages, or fly out to New York to visit people, boys, men, that he should have forgotten, by now. Brian Kinney does not chase; he is chased.

So instead of dwelling, or wondering what this means (again), or why, he picks up the receiver and dials a Canadian number, and says, "Lindsay," soft, into the phone-line. And it's better, and easier, and more Brian, in a way that he can laugh when Lindsay tries to talk about Mel's new firm (Because when did Brian ever care about her; the bull-dyke who wanted his sperm? She was going to hurt Lindsay, Brian knew it from day one, and Lindsay deserved so, so much better than that, than her, and Brian never quite understood why Lindsay didn't see it.) and Brian whispers, "Wendy," and makes arrangements and asks about his son. Brian books flights right after, and feels better.

Yes, Brian thinks with clarity; and he feels decisive and more like himself than he has done for weeks. This will make it better, Brian tells himself. He lights a cigarette.

***

Michael gets a phone call that evening, from Mel and Linds. They say that he should come out, to visit, to see their new house and their new lives, and to see JR, and Gus. Michael says that he's saving up, honest, but they've just got the new car, and they're still paying off some of the work on the new house, and he can't quite afford it, not yet. But soon. Promise.

"But it's all been organized," says Lindsay, bright and shining on the other end of the line, and full of secrets and knowledge, and freedom. "It's been paid for."

"Hey, I'm not a charity case," Michael says, without thinking, and feels so very much like Brian. "I mean, I appreciate you two --"

"Not us," Lindsay cuts in, with smiles and laughter in her tone. "But it's all been sorted, Michael, and you are coming out here to visit your daughter, you hear?"

Michael wants to know who, and why, and how, but he wants to see Jenny Rebecca more (more than anything), so he just says, "I, I guess. Okay." Then, "But. But what about Ben, and Hunter?" (Because more than a trip to Canada, he likes the idea, the thought of it being the four of them; Ben, and Hunter, and JR, and him; and he will harbor that thought, that dream, until the day he dies.)

"Well." Lindsay sounds a little awkward, suddenly, and careful. "Well we thought with Hunter's school, and Ben's classes, they might not be able to get out on such short notice. So. So, there's just a flight for you, Michael, and I, we, hope that that's okay, but, it's just not a lot of time, and it's quite a lot of money, and--"

"No, no. I understand. That's fine. Thank you," Michael interrupts, sincerely, and he smiles wide, even though they can't see it. "Ben will be so pleased. He feels guilty as all hell that I haven't had the chance to come visit already."

"Well now he won't have to," says Lindsay, all brightness and smiles once again. "The ticket should arrive in the mail over the next few days, okay? And we'll see you a few days after that."

"Okay. That sounds great." Michael is beaming, now, because he is going, going to visit, going to see his daughter after all this time, and he could be floating a foot and a half off the ground for all he knew, for all he cares.

They say their goodbyes, and Michael hangs up, and it's then that he pauses and lets it sink in. It's weird, and wrong, he thinks, that his first immediate thought is: what about Brian? Because Brian hasn't seen Gus, either, and Brian hasn't seen Lindsay, and for weeks now, as far as Michael knows, Brian hasn't seen anybody. Not that Michael would know, particularly, if he had, because it's not like they're speaking. Have spoken. Since.

Canada, Michael thinks (to wash away the guilt and the longing), and JR.

Yes, this will make it better.

***

When Brian boards the plane it is with a sense of purpose, but with thin tendrils of trepidation beginning to curl within his fingertips. Which is to be expected, he reasons with himself, because he is seeing his son, and Lindsay, for the first time in god knows how long. He's leaving behind the business, yet again, at a time when he should be staying put. Perfectly reasonable, rational reasons for his anticipation. Nothing more; nothing less.

He eyes a dark-haired beauty just across the aisle, with stubble all around the jaw and piercing blue eyes, and orders himself more vodka.

When Michael boards the plane it is with a jittery sort of excitement. Hunter and Ben come to see him off, and Michael hovers at the gate and says, "So, I guess this is it," with an awkward lop-sided smile, as if he's leaving for any decent length of time, or traveling some great distance. Ben laughs at him and pulls him in close and tight, and kisses Michael, and squeezes strong arms around his shoulders.

"Don't be too long, you hear?" he breathes into Michael's ear, and Michael squeezes him back and promises.

Michael hugs Hunter after, quick and tight and heartfelt, and pleads with him to, "Behave," because he knows that Ben will be a soft touch.

Hunter grins at him and says, "I will, I swear. Scout's honor."

Then it's time for Michael to leave, and he does; he watches them watch him go, and it's weird, because it's the first time he's been away from them without it being a hospital stay or Brian. Michael settles in his seat on the plane, and stops himself from thinking too much about it; he thinks instead of JR and what's ahead, and that's enough.

As the plane takes off, though, he can't quite help but look down out the window at Pittsburgh, and Liberty Air, and think of Brian alone in his Loft, drunk or high or fucking, and knowing. Knowing, and that's what is worse, Michael thinks; knowing that he knows and not-talking, and not being able to take it back.

Sorry, he wants to say more than anything, without quite knowing why. And: I didn't mean it.

JR, Michael tells himself to think, and Canada.

***

Mel and Lindsay arrange for a car to pick Michael up from the airport, and it's late, which isn't particularly unusual, or much of a surprise. Michael waits with a newspaper held tight within his fist over his head to keep dry from the rain, and squints out at the road and all the cars that pass him by.

Eventually the car arrives, and Michael bundles inside with an uncharacteristic, "Take your fuckin' time--"

He arrives at the new house nearly an hour later than expected, but he says nothing; just knocks twice on the door and hopes that it's the right number. The door opens, and it is, and Mel and Linds cry, "Michael!" at the same time, all overcome with excitement. Michael falls into warm loving arms, and feels so very much like home. He didn't know how much he missed them until now.

They let him in, eventually, and take off his sodden jacket, and ask him routine questions about the flight and his well-being in breathy, excited voices.

"I'm fine. It was fine," Michael says. "Where's my little girl?"

Mel and Linds shoot each other a look, at that, and Michael looks between the two of them and wonders what is going on.

"What?" he asks, panicked. "She's all right, isn't she? She's not sick, is she?"

"No, Michael, she's fine," Mel assures, hastily, "It's just --" Pause. "Linds?"

"Just," Lindsay attempts to take over, "Just. You know. A slight detail. And. And it was his idea, Michael, honest, and it -- Well, he said you'd been having some, difficulties, and we thought, you know, what a perfect way to bring the whole family together, and -- sort it out?" Lindsay trails off, glancing nervously at Mel, then back to Michael, who feels vaguely like the edges of his world are about to collapse in. He attempts to cling on, just fingertips and fingernails and then--

"It's Brian," Mel finishes, short and sharp, like a pinprick, or a needle. "Brian's here, with Jenny, and Gus. He didn't want you to know."

Michael looks from one to the other, and he has never felt fear like this before, he doesn't think. Not since Ben at the hospital; or Brian with cancer; or when he awoke in a strange bed with bright lights and doctors all around, and the smell of dust and debris in the air. It's like a bomb in his head, or a sucker punch to the gut, and Michael thinks that at this point in time he would quite gladly take either of the two.

Instead he shakes his head and tries to comprehend, and mutters, "What?" in a low hiss, as if that would make this any less real.

"Sorry," Lindsay says, looking hard at the floor then back up, quick. "We're sorry Michael, we just--"

Michael doesn't think that he can breathe, like this, with them and him and Brian, and he reaches for his jacket again without thinking. Can't, his brain is saying. Can't do this.

"What," says a voice from the doorway just behind him, just then. A voice Michael has known for fifty lifetimes, it feels. "Leaving so soon?"

***

Michael sits out on the swing in the back yard with Jenny Rebecca tucked tight and safe on his lap with his arms all around her. She smells fresh and young, and he loves her so dearly, like he didn't think he could. It's different from the Ben kind of love: tender, and romantic, and deep and thumping in his chest. It's different from the familiar fondness and protectiveness he feels for Hunter. It's certainly different from the all-encompassing head-bending blood-boiling frustrating inescapable love-hate that he feels for Brian. It's stronger and fiercer and rawer, and Michael wishes not for the first time, here with her in his arms and upon his lap, that he could pick her up and take her home, and never let her go. He kisses her forehead and feels her gurgle happily against his chest, and breathes in the smell of baby, and lets himself wish.

"I hate to interrupt," Lindsay speaks up suddenly, and Michael looks up and notices her for the first time; stood in the heady twilight in the rain-soaked grass with apologies in her eyes. "But it's Jenny's bedtime."

"No, no, that's okay," Michael says softly. Jenny has been getting steadily heavier for the past half hour or so, and there's tiredness in the darkness of her eyes. "Go on, take her. It's fine."

Lindsay does, and JR kicks just a little as she is transferred from one pair of arms to another. She twists a little in Lindsay's hold as a moth flutters by.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Lindsay says, quiet and hushed with his daughter in her arms. Michael would feel bitter, but it will solve nothing, so he doesn't bother. "I'm sorry about before. About all of this."

Michael nods and sighs and watches his feet in the dirt. "I know, Linds, it's okay." Michael doesn't quite know if he's lying.

"She's missed you, you know," Lindsay continues, and she looks fondly at JR even though she's speaking to Michael. "I'm convinced her first word will be 'Dada'."

Michael smiles at that, and if it's a little pinched at the edges it's only because he probably won't be here to hear it. "That'd be nice," Michael says, because it would. "You have to call me if she does."

"Of course," Lindsay assures. There's a little pause, and they look at each other for that long moment, and they've known each other so many years, now, so many. So long. "I'm really glad you came, Michael," Lindsay says.

"Me too," Michael says, because JR and Canada really do make it worth it. Make it better.

Lindsay leaves then, to tuck Jenny in and say goodnight, and Michael sits on the swings and pushes a little; just a slight back-and-forth with his feet still firm to the ground. He thinks about calling Ben.

"You look fucking miserable," a voice says, sudden and sharp so that Michael glances up quick. Brian is stood there, just by the backdoor with his hands in his pockets; tall and handsome and looking right at Michael. Looking at him.

"Yeah, well," Michael says, gruff, because he's too tired and too messed up to not talk to him. "I haven't been feeling too hot recently."

Brian walks closer, until he is stood just about where Lindsay was, beside the tree, and the swing-set, with moths in the air and the color leaking from the sky. "I heard," he says.

"You heard?" Michael echoes, barely. He thinks he might be dreaming; he feels like he's dreaming, like at any moment he'll wake up and they'll be back at Babylon, dancing to their song with Justin gone and everyone else forgotten, even if it was just for a second. A minute. It was enough.

"Yeah, Theodore works for me, remember?" Brian is talking up to the sky, now; not looking at Michael but still looking so goddamn nonchalant, so easy and free and Brian.

"Right," Michael says, voice tight. Back-and-forth.

There's a long, long pause.

"So, about that," Michael says, in a rush of words and breath. He feels like he can't breathe with this tension between them, and that wasn't ever what he intended, what he wanted. He needs to speak and see and touch Brian, just like he needs breath and air and oxygen. He can't go on without the other, it feels. And Lindsay and Mel may take their children and move to another country, but Michael can't let one little admission, can't let feelings ruin this friendship. He's in far too deep for that. "About that message."

Brian's hands are still in his pockets. He takes a breath and says, "It was a hum-dinger." He pauses, again, and smiles crookedly at Michael; Michael's breath catches in his throat. "You don't do things half-assed, do you, Mikey?"

Mikey, Michael thinks with nostalgia. He repeats it in his head and wishes, wishes, wishes.

When he looks up Brian is still half-smiling, arrogant and so beautiful. "Are you making fun of me?" Michael asks, a little quiet and a little cold, because it sounds as if Brian is. "Because that is the worst thing you can really do right now."

Brian sighs loud at that, frustrated and exasperated, and takes his hands out of his pockets. He strolls a little path around the patch of grass between the tree and the swing-set, through the wet grass. "I'm not making fun of you, Michael," he says. Michael lets out a breath.

"I'm sorry," Michael says, knee-jerk, without really thinking. It just feels like something he should say. "I didn't mean it. I take it back. All of it. I didn't mean it."

Michael meets Brian's sharp piercing look, this time, and nearly folds and crumbles under it, but somehow manages to hold steady. Just. Please, he thinks. Please just accept this, and let us move on. I took it back. I took it back.

"Liar," Brian says, quiet, and it rings out in the thin evening air like an accusation, although mostly it's just a fact. Then even softer: "Liar."

And fuck, that is not what Michael needed to hear, so he gets to his feet; pushes off the swing so that it flies out behind, and he steps forward quick and fierce. "Look," he says, heated. "I took it back, okay? I took it back." He almost points at Brian, points and stabs at his chest, accusing and desperate and borderline angry, although mostly he's just angry with himself.

Brian looks down at him, and for once he doesn't look arrogant, or smug. Just, as if he knows. "You can't take it back, Michael," Brian says, and Michael wishes with hot desperation that Brian would yell at him, or explain calmly to him why it could never work, or something; something that could just give him closure. Hit him, even. Hit me, Michael thinks, because that might help. Hating Brian might help.

Brian's head is tilted to one side, just a little, as if he is considering Michael, deep and thoughtful. "It's not like I didn't know, you know," Brian says after a long moment. The breeze is blowing his hair across his face, and he looks twenty-nine, again. Twenty-eight. Twenty-five. He hasn't changed a bit, in Michael's eyes.

"Oh fuck off," Michael says, and turns on the spot.

"Hey." Brian grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, but Michael fights it, until they're stuck with Brian's hands on Michael's arm and shoulder and Michael with his back to Brian; stood facing the house and trembling. "Hey, hey," Brian says, quick and quiet and so close. "Michael, quit it, come on."

I wish I could, Michael wants to say. I wish I could, but I can't.

"Just leave me alone," Michael mutters, and he feels childish, and young; like he's fifteen again, and following Brian, and copying Brian, and wanting Brian, because Brian was so cool, and Michael was the kid with a mother who worked in a Diner on Liberty Avenue and an unhealthy obsession with Captain Astro.

Brian's hand tightens just a little. "It's okay, you know," he says. "That's why I brought you out here. I wanted you to know that it's okay."

"It's not okay," Michael argues in a tight, trembling voice. "It is not okay."

"For fuck's sake, Michael," Brian hisses, and pulls him then, with all of his strength; pulls Michael, and turns him before Michael has a chance to fight it, and wraps arms all around him. Michael struggles for a second, and fights back the helpless sob that is rising in his throat, but Brian holds on tight, and the more Michael fights the tighter Brian holds. Eventually Michael falls still with a frustrated sound, and he lets his arms fall, and presses tight against the heat of Brian's chest. He can hear Brian's heart beat, and it's faster than normal. One of Brian's hands is large against the back of Michael's neck, pressing him close and keeping him there, and Michael can feel Brian's stubble against his temple. "Shh," Brian hushes, and it's not patronizing in the slightest. "Michael. Mikey."

Michael crumples up tighter, with fists balled tight against Brian's abdomen. "I'm sorry," he says, so quietly, yet again. "I didn't mean it."

Brian laughs at that, a low, quiet rumble, that Michael can feel reverberating throughout his entire body. "I know, Michael, I know," Brian whispers. He strokes fingers through Michael's hair, tangles the tips in the softness of it and buries in deep, and holds him so quiet and tight and close, and tries to make it better. "Of course you didn't mean it," Brian says, although neither believes a word of it.

They stay like that for a long, long time, even as a chill sinks in through the air from the encroaching night. Brian has never felt warmer.

Eventually Brian whispers, "Hey. Hey," and Michael shifts against him, moves back and looks up at him. Brian smiles at Michael, and strokes the hair back off of Michael's face. "What's 'Tums' spelt backwards?" Brian hisses, grinning, and Michael snorts against him, because Brian's a fuckin' idiot.

"Smut!" they say at the same time, and they laugh, and it's so good, so right, to be back together, like this. Michael laughs and Brian grins at him and strokes Michael's hair back, and then he kisses him; catches the edge of the laugh with his mouth and kisses Michael, with pressure, and feeling, and Michael shuts up quick and clings on tight and kisses back. He thinks he might indeed be dreaming.

Brian kisses him for a long time, it feels, in the nearly-not-quite twilight, under the tree with the swing-set and the moths in the air and Brian's hand too-large on the back of Michael's neck. Brian kisses him and Michael leans up and into it, and is so very in love with him, with his fingers curling against Brian's chest and his feet just a little raised up to reach.

When Brian pulls back Michael blinks up at him, surprised. "Smut," Brian echoes, in a low voice, with a smile, and Michael smiles back with lips a little red and rosed.

"Smut," Michael agrees, and he sounds the most Michael he has for a long while.

Brian strokes Michael's hair back one final time, and thinks that here and now, like this, Michael's eyes are as big as the moon.

"You two! Dinner's ready!" Lindsay calls from the back door, interrupting, and like a mother, and they break apart.

To be continued...

Fic: Six Months [2/6]

Wed, 15 Aug 2007 22:25:13 GMT

Title: Six Months [2/6]
Author: crayola123/sunrisepride
Pairing: Brian/Michael
Fandom: Queer As Folk US
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own literally nothing but the plot.
Author Notes: I apologize x1000 for the delay. RL got completely in the way of everything, but it's no excuse and I'm very very very sorry. Anyone reading this has permission to kick my ass if it happens again. Hold me to it, folks.
Anyway, it's here, finally, and I hope you like it! I also forgot to mention earlier that each chapter is another month into the six-month timespan of this fic. Hence them being named 'One' and 'Two'. Please try not to kill yourself with surprise at the powers of my creativity. Ha. Ha. (Not.) Also, this chapter is a lot darker and angstier and Michael-centric than before because of the introduction of that pain in the ass commonly known as - feelings! It was also a struggle to show time passing and whatnot, and handling the plot, and all of that nonsense, so yes, darker! Less happy-go-lucky! But more B/M (also more B/J just because of plot, honest honest) and that is good. Offers for betaing will be lapped up, over here.

Extra A/N's: This chapter owes a great deal of inspiration to this prompt. Subsequent chapters may also owe a lot to other prompts from we_are_cities. Please go check it out, because although the journal is mainly for bandom use, the prompts are so lovely and inspiring that I think pretty much any fandom ever could benefit from them.
Previous Chapters: (Month) One.

Two.

"We All Talk Like Liars."

Time passes, and Brian spends a lot of it drunk or stoned or fucking, and he calls Michael a lot and tells him how fine he is. Really.

Michael paces a lot during these phone calls and can't quite bring himself to believe it, although he wants to, he does. He does.

"We should go out," Brian says when Michael goes all quiet; as if that's something they haven't done every night for the past week. As if Brian isn't still a little bit high from last night, and as if Michael isn't a lot worried, still.

"I can't," Michael always says, although it's kind of a lie. Ben hasn't complained, not yet; he's just "hmm"'d a lot, and told Michael a couple times the time he got in when Michael is too drunk, or high, to remember the next day. But Michael knows, knows that Ben doesn't like it, that Ben doesn't want him to. It's funny how he still can't quite bring himself to stop.

Michael sort of gets the feeling that he's pissing everyone off without meaning to, sometimes, because Brian wants him to go out, and Ben wants him to stay in, and Hunter needs stability, right, and how will he afford a surprise trip out for JR's birthday like they planned if he never gets to work on time?

So Michael says, "I can't," when he could, and feels a little like he's being torn into two, or three, or four. And then he gets a call from his Mom the minute he's hung up, and realizes that it's more likely to be five.

So he calls Brian back and says, "You know what? I will. Pick me up in half an hour," and Brian hisses, "Excellent," and pretends that he wasn't waiting beside the phone for the call back.

They dance until two, three, four; together under the flashing pink-green-blue lights with powder racing through their veins and drink in their bellies. They dance alone, too, and with people they can't remember the names or faces of. Sometimes they convince Emmett out, too, and on the rare occasion Ted, and Blake, and Ben; but mostly, mostly it's just them. Just Brian and Michael up on the platform or down on the dance floor, and suddenly it's hard, really hard, for Michael not to follow Brian into the back room to get a quick blowjob up against the wall from someone he won't recognize the next day, or the day after that. Mostly because it's second nature, and partly because Brian's doing it, and Michael wants to do everything that Brian does, and more.

Everything has slipped back, Michael realizes with a sucker punch to the gut, one night when he's watching Brian with someone brown and smooth and muscular drooling behind him. Michael catches Brian's eye and Brian smirks at him; looks right at him and drags the guy by the collar behind the black wall of the back room, and into shadow. Everything is back, back, back; and Michael, Michael is back to square one with a bottle in his hand and ... alone. Stood on his own, waiting for Brian, so that he can give him a ride home and maybe get a quick kiss goodbye and oh, god, oh god; shit, fuck, he's done it, he's back to this, this hell, without even realizing it.

Michael stands at the bar with the pink-green-blue flashing overhead and lets his drink thud against the countertop while the realization sinks in and crawls through every pore, and shit; oh, shit. Michael runs fingers through his hair and curses himself, and Brian, and everything, and wants so terribly to go home - to Ben and Hunter and their new house - that he can barely stand it. He's twenty-nine, again, and desperate, again; and perhaps, perhaps, slowly falling in love again. In that hopeless helpless sort of way that can only mean Brian Kinney, that can only mean dissatisfaction; that has happened so fucking easily for him that it could only ever be Brian Kinney; always has, always will.

Brian is out in ten minutes, not a hair out of place, and with white all around his nostrils. He spots Michael and taps Michael on the back and slides their hands together. He pulls Michael to the dance floor, and twirls him, pulls him in close like they're doing the waltz, and smiles and laughs and glows beneath the pink-green-blue.

Michael clings on tight, and Brian's hand is on his waist, and Michael kisses him, because he wants to, and because he can't help himself. Because he never could. Brian laughs, after, with his head thrown back and the lights dancing over his skin in patterns and shapes and shadows, and Michael wants him so terribly, and can't, ever, never, have him. The ring on his finger says so, and Michael dances closer and buries his face in Brian's shoulder to laugh and laugh; he lets Brian pull him close and touch him like Brian does, and definitely does not let himself think about it.

He goes home around three and wakes at six-thirty when Ben starts making protein shakes and collecting together books for school. Michael has cotton-mouth and a hangover, but he pretends he's just tired (and thinks of David). He sits up where he collapsed on the sofa the night before, and presses fingers into his eyes to wake himself up.

"Good night?" Ben asks from the kitchen, and Michael "mhm"'s and gets groggily to his feet. Michael still has glitter in his hair.

Ben goes to get his shake from the blender, but Michael stops him mid-way and kisses him, hard, full on the mouth. Ben smiles at him after, and brushes some of the sparkles off of Michael's forehead, and they don't talk about it.

***

"Well, honey, I think this is sure fire proof that your mother is always right." Emmett clunks his legs against the counter upon which he's sat, and watches as Michael unloads comics onto a stand nearby. "Apparently being Wonder Woman and Pittsburgh's most fabulous fag hag wasn't quite enough."

Michael unloads another Green Lantern and sighs. "You know, you're not helping."

"Helping? Honey, I haven't even started." Emmett leaps down off the counter - gracefully - and follows Michael into the back room to dump the empty boxes. "Let's start with - sweetie, listen to me a moment, here."

Michael stops squashing up the cardboard long enough to cross his arms over his chest and glare at Emmett, who so far has been far from helpful. "I'm listening."

"As I was saying - Michael. Sweetie. Are you crazy? This is Brian Kinney we're talking about here. And - okay, okay, you seem to see something in him that the rest of us don't, but. But whatever that is, is it really worth throwing away what you've already got for? What about Ben, and Hunter? It's not like it was before, baby. You're a married woman."

"I know, but -"

"But it's Brian, and you love Brian. I know, Michael. Everyone knows. I thought you were past this, though, hm? I thought you were finally getting on with your life." Emmett says it gently, kindly, peering down at Michael and caring so much; and Michael thinks back on all the years they lived together, and all the tearful conversations they had about Brian without ever mentioning his name. They'd sit up until four with their feet in each others' laps and hot cocoa between their palms, and Michael would talk about 'this guy, you know' as if Emmett didn't know exactly who that guy was.

"I am. I mean - I don't know." Michael sighs messily, and wishes that he'd never brought it up. But he figured if he told anyone, it'd be Emmett. Emmett always was good at giving out advice, just like he has a natural knack for shopping and party-planning and pulling off orange leather with pink. "It's just. Brian."

"'Just Brian'?" Emmett repeats, softly, and grabs Michael by the arm when he tries to turn away. "Honey, for you it has never been 'just Brian'." Emmett says it so delicately, and pauses right after, and Michael looks up at him and thinks he might cry; feels it welling up inside of himself because he didn't ask for this, he never wanted to feel this way and yet, he has never stopped.

"I just wish," Michael starts suddenly, the light filtering through the back window and highlighting the darkness in the crux of his eyes, and the soft plumpness of his lips. He looks tired, and a little drawn, and his voice is all tight and tremulous when he speaks. "I just wish," he says again, "that..." and trails off, because he wishes for so many things, it seems, and they never seem to quite come true.

"That he'd notice you? Feel the same? Stop jerking you around?" Emmett finishes, helpfully. "Honey, it hasn't happened yet. What makes you think it ever will?"

Justin, Michael thinks, but doesn't say. Brian loved Justin. Brian is capable of love, and Justin is gone now, for good. And Brian loves me. I know Brian loves me.

Maybe it's enough, Michael wants to say, but doesn't. Maybe I'm enough.

The door jangles out the arrival of a customer in soft chimes, and Michael drops the conversation with a muttered, "Fuck, I need to-"

Michael bustles off, all fake smiles and sincerity, and Emmett watches him go with a purse to his lips, and hopes against hope that Michael wakes up before he gets hurt all over again.

***

It's not so much a realization, Michael reasons to himself, in that half-hearted, desperate sort of way that his subconscious has become somewhat accustomed to. It can't be a realization, because he's always known, and he's always felt this way. It's a fact, as strong and clear and solid as his very foundations, as strong a fact as Brian being his friend in the first place. Brian is his friend, his best friend. They are best friends, and Michael loves Brian. There it is. Fact. Simple.

Only not so much, because Michael told himself to quit this; to give up on this and them and Brian because of Justin, and David, and then Ben; and for the pure simple reason that Brian is an ass ninety-five per cent of the time. Michael should not have to deal with this. Michael will not be able to deal with Brian being an ass if anything ever -- well. You know.

So he should just stop, right? Just turn off that part of his brain and heart, because it can not, will not, won't. The only problem with the here-and-now of that 'fact' is that Justin is gone. And it niggles, rubs away at the feeble shells and foundations of Michael's resistance; and for Christ's sakes, he didn't ever believe it that much to begin with, what he told himself: that he could get over Brian. Ever would. And now, now with Justin gone and Brian left behind, Michael loves him all over again, because Brian needs him again.

Michael missed being needed. He missed being called up at three in the morning, and he missed being invited out to dinner or lunch or breakfast or to the clubs. He missed Brian swinging by the store and making him close up mid-afternoon so they could go off and hang out, or get stoned, or go someplace they hadn't gone to for years, where they could laugh and laugh until past four, five, six. Until past the time Ben would be suspicious about Michael coming home early, and that's all right. That's okay. That's just Brian. And this is just them.

So what if it isn't the best timing in the world. So what if Michael is married right now. There's no harm in having feelings. Feelings don't hurt anyone as long as no-one knows about them. Michael knows from personal experience; he kidded himself for years that Brian loved him back, and he did just fine. Sort of.

"Hey. Hey, Mikey. Listen to me, listen to me. Are you listening?"

Michael blinks, and realizes that Brian is talking, talking to him. "What?"

"What is up with you? Rimming stories are hardly dull topics of conversation." Brian swats his sweaty towel at Michael and Michael laughs and moves a little further away.

"Right, right. Let me guess. He came in, like, three seconds? Or, I don't know, so hard he passed out?" Michael does not feel twinges in his chest and gut, absolutely not. He attempts another stomach crunch.

Brian smirks, proud and arrogant, and flips the towel back over his shoulder. "You know me too well."

Michael smiles back, and pulls his legs in. He watches as Brian looks around the gym, and catches the eye of a well-built instructor over by the step-machines. Brian's smile turns predatory, and Michael has to stop himself from saying, "Yeah. I know," out loud.

Brian fucks the instructor in the steam-room and Michael goes home without showering, and they don't talk about it.

***

Michael tells himself that he'll feel better with a bit of distance put between them; that overexposure is what is causing all of this to rear its ugly, ugly head once again.

So he stays home when Brian invites him out to the clubs, and makes excuses when Brian stops by the store. Brian always looks at him strangely when he does, and Michael mistakes it for feeling hurt, and he feels bad all over again. Brian is the last person he would ever, ever want to hurt, but he just. He just needs to stop, for a little while.

A week or so passes, and Brian stops coming by as often, sensing that there is a problem or issue of some sort between them that Michael is not yet ready to discuss. Michael knows that at some point they have to talk about it, but he would rather it be at a time when he has stopped feeling this disconcerting and very inappropriate way.

In Brian's absence he notices that he is, for the most part, being left alone. That Ben doesn't stop by, like he used to; doesn't drop in to take Michael out to lunch, or simply to talk to him before heading off to the gym.

Michael's reaction to this realization is a rather stupid, "Huh." He suddenly feels very, very lonely, and as if he is missing something, and a peculiar twisted form of jealousy and regret swells inside his stomach.

He goes home that night and sits up with Hunter in front of the TV, and remembers how much he loves his son, and his family. It's a good kind of remembering; the kind that results in them both yelling and laughing and gesturing at the screen at all the right moments. Hunter reminds Michael a lot of himself. Only -- you know, the whole "hustling" part of the deal is not something that they have particularly in common. But Michael loves Hunter, and for the most part, understands him.

Ben comes home late, after Michael has sent Hunter off to bed with the plea that he sleeps before three, please, please. Michael is laid out on the sofa half-asleep, and Ben dumps his books and papers on the table and comes in and watches him doze. He leans in and strokes Michael's forehead and Michael blinks up at him sleepily and says, "I feel like I haven't seen you for days."

"I don't think you really have," Ben says, softly, and smiles at Michael, a little sad and a little sorry.

Michael says, "I'm sorry," with sincerity in his voice, and pulls Ben down next to him, half on top of him, and holds him close, and feels hot and sore and sorry all through his insides. Guilt, he thinks, he knows, and he's not even sure why, because after all, it's just feelings. Just feelings. Feelings.

"I know," Ben says, and kisses Michael's forehead. "Me too."

***

It's okay for a little while again, because Michael is in love with his family, and most of all Ben, and not seeing or talking to or touching Brian makes everything a little easier. Michael feels as if he breathes a little easier, and walks a little taller, and feels so, so much better, and still doesn't let himself think about it.

Ben comes by the store and takes Michael out to lunch three times that week, and they have sex just about every night, and Michael even tries to help Hunter with his homework, even though afterwards he kind of gets the feeling that he wasn't much use at all.

And it's good, and quiet, and better, until the night that Brian calls. Michael knows that something is wrong in the disjointed stony tone of his voice, and the long pauses between sentences, and Michael's plans are halfway out the window before any resistance is given the chance to form.

"I'll be right over," Michael says without being asked, and hangs up.

He kisses Ben mid-way into his jacket and says, "I'm sorry. I just, I have to." Ben smiles at him, and nods, and understands. He gives Michael the keys to the car they got last month and begs him not to crash it because they haven't paid it off, not yet. Michael promises, and is gone.

When Michael arrives at the Loft everything seems normal. Brian is dressed in just his jeans with a cigarette between his lips and the smell of sex thick in the air. Michael pulls the door closed, shrugs off his jacket and throws the car keys down on top of the expensive foreign countertop. Brian lies out on the white Italian sofa and smokes up at the ceiling in slow, precise inhales. Michael knows that that means that he is thinking, hard, and deep; he can tell by the deepening of the furrow of Brian's brow and the brightness of his eyes.

Michael sits on the end of the sofa with Brian's feet, and looks at him, and loves him, and says, "So."

There's a long pause, and Brian blows smoke out in one long exhale, emptying his chest and lungs, and the end of the breath shakes and trembles. "So," Brian echoes, and his voice is rougher than Michael has heard it in a while; all broken at the edges. "So, he wants me to go to New York."

Michael slides down until he is sat upon Brian's toes and leans against Brian's knees, presses his hands against the bone and rests his chin on the back of his palms. He looks at Brian and loves him so dearly, and has missed him like he didn't know he had, and wants to say more than anything, "Don't go."

"Oh," Michael says, instead. Then, "Are you going to?"

Brian has another drag and stares hard at the ceiling, and says, "I don't know. I don't think so."

"Huh," Michael says. He refuses to let himself feel pleased. Refuses. "Why? I mean, why not?"

"I don't know," Brian says, again. He breathes, slow and deep, and Michael knows that he's panicking and confused and unsure inside. Brian's fingers tap where they are crossed over his chest. "I just don't think it would be a very good idea, you know?"

Michael does know, so he says, "I guess." He takes a breath, and he can smell Brian, hot and close, and it's a little like sex and drugs and debauchery. (And secrets.) "When did he ask?"

"A little while ago." Brian gestures with the cigarette. "I don't know, a week?"

"And you didn't tell me?" Michael says, and that, that hurts, that burns. Michael flinches away just a little. "You didn't tell me."

Brian takes another drag. "I didn't tell you."

Michael pauses at that, and his brain is whirring, a thousand times a minute, questions and what-if's and no's going round and round and round. "Why didn't you tell me?" he says, quietly, and soft, with a little break at the end of the words.

There's another long beat of silence, and finally, finally, Brian looks at Michael; tears his gaze from the ceiling and looks at Michael, and there is judgment and challenge there, and Michael knows then that it was a terrible, terrible time to be absent from Brian, and it is in fact Michael who has the worst timing in the world.

"I didn't think you'd care," Brian says simply. And that hurts, too, because Brian knew that Michael would care. Of course Michael cares.

"Then why did you call me now?" Michael challenges, and he moves away, takes off his hands and chin and moves back onto the arm of the sofa. Not touching.

Brian makes an exasperated gesture and sits up, too. He puts the cigarette back between his lips. "Because, Michael, he called me, okay? And he agrees. He says me going to New York is stupid, and he says he wants to come back here, to visit, so. So. So he wants to come back here, and I - " Brian makes another frustrated gesture and gets to his feet. Michael sits and watches him begin to pace.

"And you don't want him to," Michael finishes slowly.

Brian exhales again. "Not particularly, no."

"May I ask why?"

"Because, Michael, because." Brian leans in and looks at Michael as he says the words, and Michael looks in Brian's eyes and knows why, and something sinks inside his chest, so deep and dark and heavy that Michael thinks he might drown with the weight of it.

"Oh," Michael says, quietly.

"Yes, oh," Brian says bitterly. He starts pacing again. "Jesus, I was doing perfectly fucking all right, without -- Without. I was just - I was doing all right, you know?"

Michael does know. "I know you were, Brian, I know. Just, forget about it, for now, okay? It'll be okay."

"Easy for you to say," Brian snaps, and Michael understands that he is tense and upset right now, and in danger of not-being-Brian-Kinney, so that's okay, too. "What, were you just never going to talk to me again? What've I done to piss you off, huh?"

"Nothing," Michael says, honestly, and looks at his hands. "You haven't done anything, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, you have shitty timing, okay? Try to save your menopausal meltdown for a time when I do not need you in the future, okay?" Brian stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table. He looks fierce and hurt and there is a strange brightness in his eyes, and Michael does know. He does know. And oh god, he wishes he didn't.

"Okay," he says, simple and meek, because he does know. Brian still loves Justin. Michael does know.

"Fuck," Brian says to no-one in particular, and kicks at the expensive Italian coffee table with his bare toes.

Yes, Michael does know.

***

"You do realize that this means you're going to have to tell him, don't you, sweetie?" Emmett says through a mouthful of toast. "I mean, that is if you haven't already. I mean, he knows, you do realize that, right?"

Michael glares at Emmett and stabs at the eggs on his plate rather viciously. "Yes, I do know that he knows." He swallows. "Actually, he knew. Back when -- well. He knew. Past tense. He knew."

"But now all he knows is that you're Michael, and that you're married," Emmett says conversationally, and has another mouthful. "Which means that if you're really truly that fuckin' crazy and actually want something to happen - you have to tell him."

Michael shovels his fork into his food once again. "I just. Can't," he admits, softly. "It's Brian. I can't."

"But you can quite happily confess to being in love with a man other than your husband?" Emmett says pointedly, and Michael pales a little under that look.

"Look, I know you disapprove -"

"It's not that I disapprove, honey, it's just that I think you're mentally challenged. Brian Kinney over Ben Bruckner, the love of your life? Really?" Emmett is speaking in a hushed whisper, now, peering over his shoulder to make sure Deb is a safe distance away for them to be having this conversation.

Michael chews slowly, and swallows. He looks hard at the tabletop, and the words just - slip out. "What if Ben isn't the love of my life?" he says quietly. "What if Brian is?"

Emmett's toast clatters onto the plate. Michael looks up slowly, and feels the heat of Emmett's warning stare.

"Michael Novotny, I cannot believe you just said that," Emmett hisses. "Brian Kinney may well be the love of your life, but in a completely different way to the way that Ben is. Brian, to you, is wanting and not getting, and - and fucking you around and - and that man has made you miserable, Michael, I can't believe you'd actually -- Ben is kind to you, he treats you right, and he is twice the man that Brian will ever be, Michael, you do understand that, right?"

Michael glances up at sweet caring Emmett and looks back down at the tabletop quick, because he knows that Emmett is right. He knows. "Maybe," he mutters, and it's not an answer, and certainly not the right one, but right now it's the best he can do. He takes a breath, and comes out with it. "He's still in love with Justin, you know. Brian, I mean."

"Well what did you expect?" Emmett's tone is sharper than Michael expected it to be, and maybe something really is really wrong with Michael. Wronger than he thought. "Brian Kinney, the, that asshole who does not believe in love, believes-in-fucking, loved that kid. At least once. Once upon a time, at the very least. That in itself is such a mind-blowing alteration to the man we've known all these years that it's got to be something special - Justin had to be something special. How could you think that he would just stop?" Emmett picks his toast back up and takes another bite. "I mean you can hardly expect him to stop if you never have."

Michael drops his fork, appetite gone, and takes his head in his hands. Shut up, he wants to say.

Instead, he says, "Oh, Emmett. For fuck's sake, what do I do?" in a despairing moan.

Emmett sighs heavily, and takes one of Michael's hands away. Michael looks up and across at him with his face all tight and choked. Emmett looks sad and sorry, and Michael wishes people would stop looking at him like that.

"Honey. Sweetie. You have one of two choices, here." Emmett's voice is soft and gentle and precise again. It's weirdly comforting. "You can either forget about all of this, bury it back down into your subconscious and go back to Ben and the life you have built together." He pauses, and mutters, "And for the record, I think that that is the option that you should get your ass on, you hear? But when do you kids ever listen to me anyway." Emmett sighs, sadly, and smiles ruefully at Michael, half-slumped in his seat across the table, desperate and confused and up against the wall without escape. "Or, you can tell him how you feel, and hope for the best."

The pause with the implications from that very act seem to hang thick and delicate in the air between them and Michael imagines his heart beating faster at the thought, and imagines it stopping, imagines his heart stopping and never knowing, never having gone for it or told Brian how he felt or experienced or any of it, and he thinks no, no, no, because that is so terribly not-right he can barely bring himself to think it.

"Michael, Emmett!" Ted calls them from the doorway and bustles over before Michael has a chance to tell Emmett what he is thinking, or quite how he feels: Like he could die, keel over tomorrow for all he cared, as long as he has the chance first, to do this. To say this. To know this.

"Michael, Michael," Ted is saying. "I haven't seen you for days! How're you doing? God, you look tired, have you not been sleeping? Are you all right?"

Michael ducks his head and half-smiles and lies about how all right he is. (Really.) He can't quite bring himself to look Emmett in the eye.

***

Brian doesn't like lying to Michael, and doesn't do it often. Ever. Brian is not a liar, and he does not lie to the person that means the most to him. But no-one can know about this, not entirely, and Brian told Michael more than he would most. It's just something he has to do. He has to. And if Michael knew, Brian is sure that he would understand. He may not condone, but he would understand. And that's good enough. That's enough for Brian.

Brian opens the door of Room 101, and there should be a meaning there, he thinks, there should be a clue. There should be a sign, perhaps, in the peeling wallpaper and shoddy carpet, too; in the way Brian is nervous, somehow, deep down in his gut. Brian Kinney doesn't get nervous. And Brian Kinney doesn't believe in "signs".

The room is so dark that it takes a moment for Brian to step inside; something is telling him not to, still; to turn and go back and pretend he never got the phone call, that he never agreed to come, or any of it. Anything.

But there, there he is. A wink of blond hair and the twist of a jaw, and he's turning to look at him, he's looking right at Brian and something jolts and flips inside, and suddenly it's sort of hard to breathe. Brian just stands and looks at him, drinks him in while he leans on the door, his palm still wrapped tight around the handle. The corridor is bright and light and just behind, and Justin is saying his name, is calling him "Brian" and is getting to his feet, and Brian just looks, and doesn't know what to say.

Justin gets to his feet, and his face is tight, as if this is just as hard for him, and somehow that makes it worse. He stands by the bed and looks at Brian with his hands awkward around his middle, like he doesn't know what to do with them. He stands there and looks at Brian with question marks in his eyes and desperation plain on his face; Brian's heart is loud in his own ears, and the door seems so heavy and slow when he finally steps forward, and shuts it behind. And then it's just them: Brian and Justin, and all the time in the world, and a reunion that feels so very much like a goodbye, all over again.

Brian didn't plan this, he doesn't think; he's just here, and it's happening, and oh god, oh god, he has missed this, missed him. Brian wants to say something - he should say something - but the month has gone by in a blink, just like they said it would. The time has flashed past, been and gone like a bad dream, and left them both behind. Justin looks older, it seems. Distant. He's here, and he's tangible, and Brian thinks of his Loft and of goodbyes, and of painful phone calls and I miss you's, and suddenly it all seems so heartbreakingly real that he doesn't think he can stand it.

Brian steps in nearer, and reaches forward, and Justin might be trembling, it's hard to tell. He's looking up at Brian unwaveringly, and he's biting his lip, and his arms are crossed tight around himself to stop himself from falling apart.

Brian touches Justin, pulls him in close and wraps long arms all around him, and he thinks there might be a wetness against his chest, perhaps, where Justin is crying, silently; or it could just be the cool patch of air and oxygen when Justin breathes in, and out; who knows? It feels shaky and new, and wrong. A month, two months, and it's only time, but time hurts and pulls and burns; pushes a cigarette against the raw patch of skin and keeps on taunting, and every touch feels like a taunt; a could have been, and a mockery, and a sneer, and for the first time it feels like this time, their time, is stolen.

But fuck it, fuck him, fuck you, he'll steal it good and proper and make it worth it, for fuck's sake. So Brian steals kisses, instead, hot touches and heavy breaths in this motel way out in the backend of nowhere, with the sign flickering outside the window - orange, black, orange, black - the sign he looked at when he drove up half an hour previously. Brian had peered up through the windscreen with the wipers clearing snow and rain off the clear clean glass; he'd looked up and thought, shit, this is it; and then, then he'd thought of sunshine, and of lemon bars, and take out eaten on the floor, and shared fortunes and cancelled comics. And he'd almost turned and driven away, almost given up and given in, but the sign had flickered back on; back to orange, and brightness, and he needed this, perhaps. Maybe he needed this. (Maybe he still needs Justin.)

Brian kisses Justin, and fucks Justin, and misses Justin, and it's all so terribly profound, but mostly it's just painful. It blurs and mixes and rushes around his head, and it's so confusing and so strange and it hurts hurts hurts in a way that he never thought it could. He whispers to Justin and swears at him, and about three in the morning he even knocks over a lamp on the dressing table and screams at Justin, shouts at him and then holds him, and it's all so volatile, too much too quick too soon and still, not ever quite enough.

The next day they get dressed in silence but fall to the bed kissing right after. When it's time to go, Justin stands beneath the flickering orange neon sign and Brian sits in his car with the window rolled down, and they say things that they probably shouldn't, and it's stiff, and a bit awkward, and very wrong. They decide that they probably shouldn't do it again, at least for a little while.

Brian's head aches with a strange form of thumpa thumpa all the way home.

***

Michael plucks up the courage when the snow starts to fall, slow and heavy. It's wet against the window, just like it's soft and damp beneath Brian's tires; and Michael stands beside the pane and looks out as the perfect picturesque street becomes buried in white flake after white flake, until there is no street left to be seen. Michael clutches the phone to his ear and feels panic and fear in the pit of his stomach, and a horrible ache and pitter-patter in his chest, and cold guilt and treachery strokes long fingers all up his spine.

I have to, he tells himself. Twenty years means I have to; and so does the ring on his finger, and the music and pink-green-blue in his head - they all mean that he has to. He has to.

A car trawls its way up the street and Michael watches it go, watches the tracks and trenches it makes in the clear pure white. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out in one long shaky exhale. He's so close to the window that his breath comes out in a hot white fog that swirls into a circle and mists out against the glass. His knuckles are bunched tight at his side, and are white around the receiver, and Michael thinks desperately of all the ways he can say this without sounding pathetic, and can't come up with a single one.

It goes to voicemail, and Michael doesn't know if that's better or worse; but he has time, he tells himself, he has time to get this right. He's had over twenty years.

So he takes a deep breath, and lets his grip soften.

Michael says, "Brian," into the receiver, into the answer phone, and starts talking.

Continued here.

Fic: Six Months [1/6]

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 09:29:06 GMT

Title: Six Months [1/6]
Author: crayola123/sunrisepride
Pairing: Brian/Michael, although it involves most other pairings.
Fandom: Queer As Folk US
Rating: R, perhaps?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters; they belong to CowLip and Showtime and things like that.
Summary: Set in the period of time between Brian & Michael being together in bombed-out Babylon and the whole gang there together dancing six months later. This is the kind of filler for that time period, if you will. It therefore follows all the characters, is sympathetic to all pairings, but is Brian/Michael centric nevertheless.
Comments/criticisms more than welcome. Anyone interested in betaing, please do not hesitate to contact me!

One.

"Why haven't you called me back?"

Brian's fingers look long laid out flat against the countertop - high-end marble flown in from someplace foreign, someplace expensive, someplace he'll probably never get to see - curled and extended, curled and extended.

"I've left you messages, and, and emails, and I'm fuckin' sick of this, Brian, this is fuckin' shitty."

Curled and extended, with a bottle of Jack that's half-full, or maybe that should be half-empty, about an inch from his left elbow; sitting there all brown and pretty, looking glorious and delicious and everything Brian never wanted to be all at once. In the corner, the answer phone message keeps on recording.

"Jesus, Brian, just pick up the goddamn phone. I know you're there. I called your office. You want me to come round again? You want that? This is a shitty-ass thing Brian, I'm worried over here."

That's a fuckin' shitty way to treat him.

"You're a fucking asshole sometimes, you know that? Just ring me back."

Brian closes his eyes a second and maybe he deserves the rant and maybe he doesn't. Maybe he should get off his sorry ass and go to work and make some more money that he technically doesn't even need, anymore. Maybe Michael's right, maybe he should just get up and answer the goddamn phone. But maybe it's just too difficult right now.

I called you and you were about to get on a plane and you came and sat with me for three days.

There's a long pause. One beat. Two beats. Three, four, five.

"Brian." Softer now; a softer tone and pleading, like that'll ever work. It's worked a thousand times before. "Please. Just. I just want to know that you're all right. That you're okay." Michael breathes in deep and messy and Brian can see him clear as day with a hand clutched tight to his forehead and a furrow in his brow, always so worried and caring and the better fucking person, shit. Shit. Brian's not a good person.

Michael's voice is tight when he says, "Just call me back, for Christ's sakes, and let me know that you're okay." Tight and maybe a little choked. Maybe it's been a week or two, or maybe more. Brian doesn't know. Doesn't care.

Brian opens his eyes again, his own forehead creased and the bottle of Jack swimming, out of focus, just a little to the left. Just a little too much. In the corner, the answer phone records the sound of a phone being put down, and the line goes dead.

***

"I just don't get why he does this. Why he always does this. Every fuckin' time something goes wrong, or, or he's not okay, he just shuts himself off from everyone else. Has to prove to us that he can handle it on his own. Jesus, he won't even return my calls, or talk to me, or anything, and I - I haven't even done anything - he hasn't even done anything!"

"I know. I know." Ben's voice is calm like he's used to Michael's rants, and he is; he has to be. After living with Debbie for thirty-five years it's almost understandable. Mostly it's just Michael. "He'll come around, Michael, he always does."

"Yeah, but this time it's different." Michael's face is all broken up with worry as he takes another bite (something foreign that he can't remember the name of, but Ben makes it every Wednesday and Michael insists it's his favourite, even if sometimes all he really wants is pizza and a bump). With his mouth full he says, "This time it's because Justin's fucking left - not just the state, but. But gone, you know? After five years, shit. Five fuckin' years."

"He needed to do it," Ben says calmly, reasonably. (He's always so fucking reasonable and sometimes Michael would just like it if he wasn't, if he was opposed to something that perhaps he shouldn't be opposed to.) "He's grown up, now. He needs to go and live his life."

"Yeah, I know," Michael says, and swallows. "I know, and good for him. He can go off and do wonderful things and we can all stay here and, and grow old. And whatever. But what about Brian?"

Ben smiles a little crookedly the way he always does during these conversations, whenever Michael says things like that that make the bottom of his stomach jolt, and his heart to sink just a touch. Only a little. "I'm sure he'll be fine," he says. Reasonably. (And there's the optimism, again, the hope, and maybe Michael can go without excitement and nightclubs and Brian if it means just another minute or so of this.)

Hunter walks in, long and lanky and halfway to becoming a man, with the door shutting too loudly behind him so that the windows shake in their frames. "What are we eating?" he says, throwing his bag to the floor, his leather jacket tight and his hair too-long.

"You're not," Michael says through another mouthful, "You've got homework."

"Fuck homework," Hunter snorts, dry retorts on his tongue, but at the look Michael throws him he decides instead to shut his trap. He knows best, but sometimes he needs reminding. Sometimes it's easier just to agree and get on. "All right, all right. Jeez, Mom, would you cut me some slack?"

Michael glares but his eyes are shining, and he's proud and happy and content; everything he ever wanted to be, and nothing like what he expected. Hunter does as he's told with a heavy sigh to accompany it, and Ben watches him go to his room whilst Michael spears vegetables viciously with his fork. The silence hangs for a moment or two after Hunter's door swings shut, and maybe Michael's shoulders slump just a little as he says, "I just wish he'd ring, that's all."

It's okay, really; it's okay, as they eat and Michael worries, and Ben worries for Michael, and everyone's so worried, god, it's pathetic. You're so pathetic.

Michael runs a hand over his face and tells himself to stop, stop, stop it. But his head is buzzing and he feels tired and twisted, and he needs to go and lie on expensive floors and get high after just one hit with someone he's known for longer than he's known himself.

"I just wish he'd call, that's all."

***

Justin calls to say that he landed safely, that he's there and he's alive and nothing's really changed. Only it's such a lie; everything's changed and New York may as well be the fucking moon, for fuck's sake.

Brian "mmhm"'s through the conversation and makes cynical remarks about everything and nothing and takes a swig from his bottle to fill up every awkward silence. Justin says that the room he's staying in is so tiny that if he stretches out his arms he can touch both walls.

They had to drill through my skull to release all the blood.

Brian says, "Cool."

There's a long pause and there isn't even enough left in the bottle to fill up the gaping, aching space it leaves behind; the space left when you put all your eggs in one basket, so to speak only to have it all… crumble.

Justin takes in a deep breath that turns into static over the line and says, "Do you miss me, yet?"

Brian half-smiles to himself and wishes, perhaps, that Justin could see, and hates himself for it. It burns deep with a twist to his gut and he tries to drink the last few drops that aren't even there anymore. He laughs dryly, and says, "I haven't had the time," in a rough voice telling of abuse and lies. Liar. Pretty little blond boys from the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art have not changed him completely. Not quite. Not yet.

Justin's smile fills the silence, because he knows. He knows he knows he knows. And his room doesn't feel like home, not yet; it's just four walls and a bed and a hell of a lot of peeling paint; paintbrushes and canvases, and ridiculous boring things everywhere he looks, and Justin left behind more than he thought he did, perhaps.

Brian thinks of sunshine.

Justin says, "Huh," with the smile still lingering in his voice, and leaves it at that.

He doesn't call again for at least a week.

***

"Order's up, honey. Wake the fuck up and start eatin'."

The plate lands with a clatter, the bacon jumping against the cheap porcelain, the eggs stodgy in the corner. Ted lifts his head, blearily, at the sound, a jolt to his shoulders and his eyes red-ringed. Debbie peers in with concern and too much make-up.

"Teddy, honey, are you all right? You look like shit."

"I feel like shit." Ted yawns, slow and steady, batting away Deb's comforting hand. "I'm fine, I'm fine. It's nothing."

Deb slides in opposite all the same, her rainbow coat and badges all glinting and smiles and maybe one or two fuck you's. "Don't feed me that horsecrap," she says, in that stern, caring way, the bangs and bracelets on her wrist clanging in agreement. She pauses, chewing fiercely on her gum, the wrinkles at her forehead deepened with concern and question marks burning in her eyes.

Ted stares at his plate and makes a face, his skin a worrying shade of white. "Why did you bring this, Deb?" he complains tiredly. "I ordered water, hold the vomit."

"You can't afford not to eat, especially the way you're lookin'," she retorts. "What is it, Teddy? Not… crystal?"

Ted half-laughs at that, but it's tired and half-hearted and maybe it could be, maybe it always will. "No, no. Thank God," he reassures, raising sunken eyes to meet Deb's brightness for the first time. He almost squints.

"Well what is it, sweetie? You and Blake have a row? He isn't using again, is he?"

"No, no… will you stop catastrophizing? I'm just… tired. What with Brian being … incapacitated, and Blake moving back in, I've found myself trying to somehow run the Kinney ship single handed. Do you have any idea how difficult it is trying to keep a business afloat? Let alone two. Jesus." He hangs his head again, running a hand down over his face to hide yet another yawn. "I haven't had more than an hour's sleep in days."

"Aw, Teddy," Deb coos, reaching across to grab his cheek and squeeze. "You're all heart, you know that? You ever hear that? Well, now you have. But you're also too fuckin' kind. You let that asshole walk all over you, and he's gonna keep on doing it. Just look at Michael."

"I'm not Michael, Deb," Ted says kindly, and they both know what he means. "And he could use the help after… well, you know. Not to mention a friend. Whether he'd admit that in person or not. And I'm sure I'm the last person he'd ask for something - make that anything - but I am someone who can do something to help him out. So I offered of my own free will." He yawns again, muttering, "Fucking idiotic decision to make, too, I might add, but now I'm here…" He trails off, shrugging resignedly.

"Oh, Teddy." Debbie smiles at him in that touched, motherly way that she can't help but be overcome with every now and again, and pushes the plate back in Ted's direction. "You eat up, you hear? It's on the house. You're a fuckin' angel."

"Don't remind me."

The bell above the door chimes out the arrival of another customer. Debbie's halfway out of her seat before she registers that it's Michael.

"Baby!" she sings, clutching him into a quick, tight embrace. "I haven't seen you in days. You ever hear of a little thing called a phone?"

"You ever hear of a little thing called being busy?" Michael smiles, though, and hugs her close, and promises to call next time, he swears. He says, "I've just had a lot on my mind that's all," as he slides on in opposite Ted.

"Haven't we all," Ted mutters, more to the bacon than Michael.

"I hear he's not holding up so good," Deb says, gently, pad clutched tight in her left palm. They all know who she's talking about.

"I keep leaving messages but… nothing. Not since the night Justin left," Michael tells the tabletop. "I don't know, maybe taking him to Babylon wasn't such a great idea. Too many memories, good or bad, whichever way you look. Maybe that made it all hit home harder."

"Must have been tough seeing it like that; a bombed out mess. Especially right after having to say goodbye to Sunshine," Deb murmurs. "Poor guy. I never thought I'd say it, but he really loved that kid. And I have to hand it to him, he did right by him in the end."

"Yeah, but how do we do what's right for Brian now?" Michael counters (because he'll let that comment slide), "Especially if we can't even get in contact with him."

"You'll find a way, honey," Deb says, reassuring and safe as she leans down to cup his chin and kiss his cheek. "You always do."

Michael smiles lopsidedly and watches as she bustles off to collect orders and deliver plates, and he loves her with all his heart.

"She's right, you know," Ted speaks up, suddenly. "If anyone can get through to him, it'll be you. Just, try to make it sooner rather than later? For the sake of everyone else's sanity, and more importantly, my health."

***

The knocking on the door has been going on for a good five minutes, but Brian knows who it is and he refuses to answer. Can't, won't, will not deal. Doesn't want to see him and certainly doesn't want to speak to him. No, no, no.

Only the knocking doesn't stop and neither does the shouting, until Brian's head isn't just throbbing from the drugs and the drink and the what the shit just happened, jesus that's been keeping it in a perpetual state of agony every morning for the past week. It's almost enough to rouse him from his position, stretched out in his jeans, face burrowed in the pillows of his bed. (Their bed.) Oh, the joys of singledom.

"All right, all right," he growls, eventually, just as the pounding becomes sickening, and he rolls off and up and onto his feet.

Brian throws the door back more viciously than he intended, and Michael's there with a fist still raised and a "Bri-!" at his lips.

"Oh," Michael says, and they look at each other a moment; Brian half-naked and unshaven, unwashed and unhappy, and Michael filled with concern and comfort and maybe just a little anger, just a dash of common sense. Just enough love.

They look at each other, pure understanding, and Brian steps back, for the first time in a week, and lets him in. Michael follows without a word.

Brian goes for coffee before conversation and Michael just mutters, "Jesus fucking Christ, what have you been doing in here? It smells like a fucking shithole."

Brian picks up the filter and half smiles to himself: so Michael. "The joys of singledom," he says, helpfully, in a mockery of a toast. He pours two mugs.

"Speaking of," Michael segues, approaching closer and closer and leaning in against the expensive foreign countertop. Brian knows what's coming next just like he knows how to breathe and sleep and walk. "Why the fuck haven't you returned my calls? My messages? I was worried sick about you. We all were."

Brian slides one mug nearer to Michael and wraps his hands around the burning heat of the other. It tastes bad and black and hot against his tongue. "Solitude is my preferred form of grief management," he says, always short and always sarcastic.

"Bullshit," Michael calls, looking Brian dead in the face, even though Brian refuses to look him in the eye, look at him in any way, for Christ's sakes. "I could have helped you, you know. That's what friends are for."

Brian slams his mug down and strides away at that, quick and angry and hurt along the expensive hardwood floor. It's too early, still. In more ways than one, perhaps. "Well maybe I didn't want your help, Michael, did you ever think of that?" He reaches the bed, and collapses, like he's sick, again, and maybe he is. "I'm all right. I'm fine. In fact, some might even say I'm good - great, dazzling, brilliant - so, why the fuck would I need your help, or anyone else's?"

Michael follows him, empty handed, and pauses at the end of the bed, watching as Brian stretches out in just his jeans and lights a cigarette. "Because Justin left, Brian," he says softly. "Justin."

Brian inhales, deep and shaky, feels breathless and empty and hurting just a little inside his lungs, his chest, his heart. If he was a little bit higher, he thinks he might cry. Instead he laughs. "Really?" he says, all dry and rough, "I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, fuck you," Michael says. "The first person you ever took a chance on just left for New fucking York, and you've just - you've just decided that locking yourself away and poisoning yourself day in day out is going to make it better? That ignoring us, by losing us too, it'll help in any way? And then you try to feed me bullshit about being all right. You are not all right, Brian. Look at you. For fuck's sake."

"I'm beautiful," Brian says defiantly, and takes another drag. "I'm beautiful and I'm free again and I'm abusing myself because I want to. Because it's what I do. And no-one's going to stop me. Why should I give a shit if little Sunshine's run off to the Big Apple? Who hasn't wanted to, at some time or another? Christ, Mikey, just let him live his life, and let me live mine."

"Exactly," Michael says, jaw set and nearly angry, not quite. "Exactly. New York's been your dream, only it fell through, and there he is - riding off into the sunset with a career and his whole life ahead of him. Do not bullshit me, Brian. Don't act like you don't care."

"I don't need your help," Brian half-laughs to himself, and reaches for the chest of drawers beside his bed. He takes a pill, white and bright and maybe it'll help - "So save it for someone who gives a shit…" - and pops it on his tongue. He swallows with a smile that takes him back five years, and nothing's changed much, if you look at it properly. He doesn't want to look at it. "Because I don't want your pity, or anyone else's. What I want is… drugs. Lovely little white drugs, and for you to shut the fuck up."

Michael sits down heavily on the end of the bed and takes his head in his hands like Brian's company gives him a headache. It probably does. He sighs and covers his eyes and wishes it was easy, wishes that things between Brian and him had ever been easy.

I know I can be shitty to you sometimes. I know that.

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," Michael says, softly, as Brian lies flat out on the bed with his head spinning and his heart rate increasing. "I promise you, I'm not leaving."

We've always been there for each other.

Brian snorts softly. "Yeah, you and me'll never leave. Stuck in the Pitts for the rest of our fucking lives. Whip-pee," he drawls, one hand flat against his own chest and his eyes trained at the ceiling. "We'll die a couple miles away from where we were born, old and gross and alone, and that'll be that."

"I didn't mean it like that," Michael says, carefully. Always so careful. (Maybe they should both stop being so careful. Especially with each other.)

I know you'll always love me, no matter what.

Brian breathes in deep and exhales tightly, in that hopeless sort of way because Jesus, it's Mikey. Mikey. "I know," he says, a little quieter. "I know what you meant."

(And, maybe, it helps. Just a little.)

"Have you heard from him? Anything?" Michael pushes, voice muffled with his back to Brian. The sun comes in through the glass of the windows and rubs out his edges; he glows.

Brian sighs a little and shifts position, throwing one arm back behind his head and taking another drag from the cigarette. "Yeah. He's doing fine," he says through the smoke.

"Good. I'm glad. He should be - I mean, he's good, you know? He's going to be great." Michael's voice is a little sad, a little pleading, like he's trying to win points, trying to show that he's on Brian's side and that despite everything he accepts this - accepts Justin and that he did this, and he's not going to go off on one about what a shit Justin is, because Brian isn't. Brian isn't, it's okay, somehow - it will be - it's just life and life's a bitch, but it'll be okay, eventually. And Justin is his friend now, too. "Jesus, I need - I mean, do you have anything stronger than coffee? I need something stronger than coffee."

Brian half-laughs to himself, a low rumble in his throat, as Michael falls back against the pillows with a hand clutched tight to his forehead. Michael half-smiles back beneath the palm across his face and glances across at Brian - high, and in disarray, with a cigarette between his fingers and a smile upon his lips to match - and leans in nearer, presses his forehead to Brian's skin. Brian laughs again, and maybe it's because he's high or maybe it's because it's Michael, and he slides the arm out from behind his head and wraps it tight around Michael's shoulders. He squeezes once, twice, and loves him, loves Michael, before reaching back and scrabbling in the drawer for a skin and some weed.

His fingers are light as he rolls, and Michael is warm at his side. When he's done he lights it with steady hands and passes it to Michael first. Michael has the first drag, his eyes alight and almost black, and he looks happy.

As he passes the joint back across Michael says, "I was so pissed at you," and laughs a bit, only it comes out more as a cough.

"Uh huh," Brian says, and it's funny, huh, it's real funny how he's got a cigarette in one hand and a joint in the other, and what is his life, jesus, what the fuck is this? He takes one last drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out, and waits for Michael to continue.

"For everything. I don't even know. I was just… pissed." Michael takes another deep inhale, and the smoke curls out in white bands from his tongue, after. Their fingers brush when he passes the joint back over.

"Ancient history," Brian says, voice low and deep with the end still between his lips, this time, and just like that they're okay, and the week is the past. Brian's never had a friendship like this one before.

That's ancient history, now just go to sleep.

Michael smiles to himself and the ceiling, and settles back further into the pillows of Brian's bed. Everything seems so far away and distant - unimportant - because nothing has ever been as important to him as this, them. Five years and they're almost, but not quite, back to square one. Back to being twenty-nine and in love and desperate and unsatisfied but so very, very comfortable. So very sure of the fact that this was who he was and that was who he loved - would love until the day he died. Unquestionable.

"It's funny, huh," Michael murmurs, and stretches, "how things change."

Brian exhales loudly; "Side-splitting." Michael is just warm heat and pressure all down his left side. Brian passes the joint across, again, and their fingers fumble.

"Do you ever wonder," Michael says, hesitant - but he's high and so it doesn't matter what he says, what he's brave enough to say, now. He wouldn't normally say it. He'll forget about it, later. "Do you ever wonder," he says, "what would have happened if… if, you know."

(If Brian hadn't seen Justin, if Michael hadn't given up waiting, if Dr David and Ben and Hunter had never come, or gone - if Brian had gone to New York and if Michael had stayed in Portland - if Justin hadn't gotten bashed and if Brian hadn't taken Justin back after the fiddler fell off the roof. If Justin had never gone to LA and if Rage had never been cancelled. If, if, if. )

"I have fleeting fancies," Brian says, eventually, his head a dull thud. "But mostly they leave me alone." He coughs once, to clear his throat. "Why? Do you?"

"Sometimes," Michael admits to the ceiling. "Sometimes, I guess." He shuffles, nudging Brian's leg with his own to get more comfortable. "But it's nothing. Stupid." He laughs lightly, and glances up at Brian through his lashes when he reaches for the joint. "No apologies, huh, though? No regrets."

Brian smiles back, and hooks his left arm around Michael's neck, strokes down the front of Michael's t-shirt and breathes pot and hot breath into the crook of Michael's throat. "No regrets," he echoes, and even if they don't quite mean it, it has to be said. Brian kisses Michael's cheek and Michael takes another drag, and pretends he doesn't feel his heart begin to stutter, quicken. His head aches like nothing before.

"I should go," Michael says, after a long beat of silence, with Brian wrapped tight and warm all around him, and the white smoke spiralling up between the two of them.

Brian clings on a little tighter, and he's okay, he knows he will be, but he's spent a week being alone and he misses his best friend, sometimes. Misses the times when it was just them against the world. "Stay," he says, because it's all he needs to.

Michael's breath stutters a little, and he makes half-hearted attempts to disentangle himself, to get away, because no. Brian clings on, though, and Michael can feel the beat of Brian's heart against his back, and he has never, ever stopped loving him quite like this.

"Okay," Michael says, eventually, "Just for a little while."

(And Michael has the last hit before they stub it out, before they settle, because he needs it to deal with this and Brian and them. )

When Brian falls asleep for the first time in days, wrapped tight with Michael in his arms (or maybe it's the other way around), Michael thinks that maybe Justin had the right idea after all - that leaving is the only way of letting go - will ever be. Michael doesn't know if he'll ever be able to let go, because when he thinks back to Oregon he thinks of fights and wanting Brian and missing Brian, and god, maybe this will all he'll ever be good for, all he'll ever be able to do. He loves Ben and he loves Brian and in that moment he is so terribly jealous of Justin and of New York, and of people who are able to let go of the past, and forget.

But Michael doesn't say anything, he just lies there with Brian breathing hot uneven breath against his skin and making him shiver; lies there in Brian's bed with the sun filtering through the window and bathing them in a golden glow that seems to wash away all of their mistakes. Michael wonders because it's ingrained in him to do so, and thinks of all the things that could have been, and all the different versions that could have been painted of this picture.

Brian wakes the next morning with a headache to kill and over twenty-four hours of sleep to his name; to an empty bed and an empty apartment. The first thing he does is ring Michael, and leave a message with his own version of "I love you".

When Ben stops off at the house at lunchtime to pick up some books, he hits play on the answer phone and hears a sleep-hazy Brian Kinney mutter, "Mikey. Mikey, pick up. Are you there? Mikey - god, you're so pathetic…" Brian sounds drunk, or high, and his voice is too rough so that it drags over every syllable. Ben almost goes to press delete, because Michael doesn't need to hear those words again; to have it drummed in to him that he's the pathetic one, that he'll never be good enough; to have him be reminded that sometimes he's worthless, even to the person he loves most in the world.

But the message keeps on playing, and Ben lets it. "Thank you," Brian is rasping, barely; just the once, and then the message clicks off suddenly, as if the phone was slammed down in shame on the other end of the line.

Ben smiles to himself then, because maybe it won't be worthless to Michael, after all; maybe it'll be worth twice as much and will be all the more damaging. The words seem to echo in the room and in his head, and the house seems bigger and lonelier than it is.

But Ben smiles to himself later, too, when Michael is kissing him hello; smiles because he loves Michael so very dearly, so much so that he doesn't think Michael will ever truly comprehend it, or feel the same. Not entirely. And Ben keeps on smiling, encouraging and touched, when Michael is grinning to himself privately as he listens to the soft words played out through the speaker. Ben smiles because Michael is happy, so happy, and to him that is all that matters.

***

Michael calls Brian early the next day, and spends a good ten minutes attempting to convince Brian out of the Loft and back into civilisation.

"But I don't want to," Brian says petulantly, phone clutched tight to his ear and frowning at the empty bottles on his coffee table. God, he's been reduced to drinking alone. How pathetic.

"Please?" Michael begs. He balances the receiver between shoulder and ear and tries to wrestle Hunter for the last of the cereal with his free hands. "Fuckin' -- Brian, my Mom wants to see you, okay? She'd never admit it, but she's worried. Just show up at the Diner for ten minutes, that's all I ask. Let her see that you're alive and fabulous and then she can go back to hating your guts. Okay?"

Hunter wins. Michael swears colourfully.

"You're really selling this to me, Mikey. It's like trying to convince me to swim in a tank of sharks just after shaving. I'm not going." Brian peers into his fridge in search of sustenance, and comes up with nothing but butter and a packet of mostly empty condoms that do not belong to him. He holds the latter between finger and thumb with a look of distaste. "Although if you schmooze me with French cuisine and liquor, I may be more inclined to say yes."

Ben kisses Michael's temple and whispers, "Bye," into Michael's free ear on his way out the door. Michael tears himself from the conversation long enough to say, "I'll see you tonight," and smile winningly at his partner. Ben returns the gesture and the door shuts behind.

"I can offer bacon and cold coffee?" Michael suggests, his attention back to the phone call. "I know you can't resist both that and my mother's charms. Not to mention the boys'. Did I mention Ted wants your balls?"

"Since when is this news?" Brian quips. But he pauses a moment and looks around at the bottle-strewn apartment. The fridge is empty, he is out of alcohol and drugs, and his only connection to the real world is currently trying to convince him out of the house with poor attempts at wit on the other end of the line. Brian sighs. "All right, all right. As long as you promise to keep Theodore firmly away from my balls, I'll venture forth into No-Man's-Land. But if your mother so much as attempts to console me, I seriously suggest relocation and Witness Protection."

"You flatter me." Michael's smiling, though.

Hunter rolls his eyes. "Stop flirting and pass me the goddamn milk, would you?"

Michael bats at him but passes over the jug regardless. "So, around one at the Diner? And please, shower, or people really will think you've had a breakdown."

"It was a minor malfunction," Brian corrects sternly. "Thankfully all systems are now go." Brian lifts an armpit and inhales and - okay, Mikey's right, he reeks. "Kisses to Ben and Hunter," he mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I need to get naked. Bye, Mikey."

***

"Michael, sweetie, would you calm down? You'd think the fuckin' Pope was coming. Not Brian Kinney, the Devil Incarnate." Emmett is smiling as he speaks, his long fingers twirling the salt shaker in a bored yet strangely elegant manner.

"Would you stop? You said you'd be nice. You all said you'd be nice." Michael keeps twisting in his seat, nervous and fidgety about his best friend's first appearance. He feels strangely responsible, and it doesn't help that Brian is, as always, fashionably late.

"Of course we'll be nice, we're his friends." Emmett smiles again and brushes at something non-existent on his feathery blue jacket, so wonderfully clashing with the bright yellows and reds of the diner and the sensible suit of Ted just beside him. "Well, in my case, more a mild acquaintance that has been taken far too seriously, but you can't have everything, can you?"

"All I say is he'd better appreciate the man hours I've put in. I expect overtime, you know. And bonuses. Lots of bonuses," Ted chips in.

Despite earlier concerns and sympathies, people seemed to still be expecting the worst of Brian Kinney. Michael glances at the door again.

"Where in the fuck is he?" he murmurs, a little desperate.

"You know, I've just had someone move in with me, and that isn't easy. And instead of spending time enjoying it I've devoted hour after hour to his businesses, sorting out his finances, and if I don't get a thank you --"

"--You'll what, Theodore? Have my balls?"

All three turn simultaneously. Brian strolls easily past them, pausing only to clap a hand to Michael's shoulder, and leans against the counter with an easy smile. He looks arrogant and beautiful in a well-pressed suit, freshly washed and well-slept. He seems a new man.

"Brian," Ted starts nervously. "Er, well -- yes. That was the plan of it, or. You know. Whatever suits you - best."

Brian rolls his eyes and smirks some more. "And here I thought you'd actually grown a pair. Tut tut, Theodore." He smiles though, and for a second he seems sincere. "Thank you for the man hours, though. You will be paid appropriately."

"I will?" Ted looks a little dumbfounded; unsure whether Brian truly means it or not, or whether he is merely making fun of Ted and his efforts to help out a friend in need. Ted seems to decide that it is less complicated to believe the first. "Oh. I mean - I will. Of course I will."

"You're looking well, Brian," Emmett says, all traces of cynicism gone. Deep down, Michael gets the feeling that Emmett does truly feel sorry for Brian, and Justin. "I'm glad you're back on your feet." Although a little forced, the sentiment is there, and Michael smiles at Emmett, touched and grateful.

"Yeah, Brian," Michael says, turning to look up at him with sparkling eyes. "I'm glad you made it."

"I said I would, didn't I?" Brian says nonchalantly, but looks at Michael, looks in his eyes, and understands. "It's not all that great an achievement. Plus Theodore has made no attempts whatsoever to reach for my cock, and your mother has yet to make an appearance, so all round, everyone wins, wouldn't you say?"

Just as Michael is about to reply and Ted opens his mouth to splutter a mixture of protest, indignation and confused outrage, Debbie chooses to sail by with a, "What was that about Michael's mother and where in the fuck have you been, you little shit?"

She delivers two plates of Turkey Wraps to the table next door, before returning with expectant eyes and hands on her hips.

"I decided to take time out from my busy schedule to help orphans in Uganda. I'm sure you'll be the first to tell me how selfless an act of generosity that was, and you can show it by bringing me coffee that is at least lukewarm," Brian says smoothly, playing with a plastic fork as he leans back against the counter.

There's a slight pause in which he and Debbie seem to be sizing each other up; but then Deb steps forward, chewing her gum absently. "You doing okay?" she asks quietly, and she looks concerned and a lot like Michael for that split second.

Brian looks at her right back and says, "I'm doing fine, Ma," pointedly.

Debbie hesitates a moment before smiling. "I should think so," she says brightly, cups his cheek a moment and takes a good, long look. "But if you go MIA again, I'm going to have to kill you, you hear? Asshole."

"Yes, Mother," Brian drawls, and smiles at her. Debbie bustles off in search of coffee that has at least been made recently.

Michael grins wide as he watches her go. "Well that went suspiciously well."

"Don't sound so surprised," Brian says, tearing himself away from the counter and plopping himself down beside his best friend in the booth. "Mothers love me."

Emmett smirks and says, "Is this before or after you've fucked their sons?"

"Or even them," Ted continues. "I wouldn't put it past you, Bri, to go straight to get ahead."

"Please, don't insult me," Brian says, and he nudges Michael with his elbow, imperceptibly; tries to tell him with that alone that he's back and beautiful and that Michael should quit worrying because it gives him wrinkles.

Michael smiles at the tabletop, and understands.

***

They go out, that night, because it's Friday, and Brian is back. It's weird, being at Poppers instead of Babylon, but the reconstruction work will take months, yet, and that can't even begin until Ted's sorted out the contracts from the developers who were going to buy it off and turn it into just another Big Q.

"You've really fucked yourself on this one, Bri," Ted mutters as they walk past; the signs down and litter and debris surrounding the area where Babylon once reigned.

"Have faith, Theodore," Brian says, with a set jaw, but he doesn't look at it; can't quite bring himself to.

Brian seems to be back to his old self when they get to Poppers, dancing with the hot young things that have appeared in his absence; taking a bump or two with Michael when they're entwined together on the dance floor; disappearing into the shadows for a quick blowjob or so from anonymous strangers.

"It's just the once, I swear," Michael tells Ben after he takes it, and Ben nods, and understands, even as he looks at Michael and sees the white on the edge of his nose and the wideness of his eyes, the speed of his speech. "Come on, come on, dance with me," Michael says, and takes Ben by the hand.

People notice them; they notice Ben and they notice Michael, but as usual Michael doesn't notice them noticing, he just presses up against Ben all hot and sweaty, and there's a wildness to his face and an urgency to his eyes. Ben pushes the hair back off Michael's face and moves with him, and it could be just them and this dance floor, if they wanted it to be.

"You okay, baby?" Ben asks, because Michael's smiling lopsidedly and he looks dazed; he's sweaty and hot to the touch. Ben knows it's not just the once, that it wasn't, and doesn't quite know whether that's okay.

"Mm? Oh, yeah, yeah. I'm great, great. Great," Michael mumbles, and then he's laughing at the sound of his own stupid voice, leaning in and pressing up against Ben, and wanting him, god, he wants him. "You're gonna fuck me," Michael breathes against Ben's neck, and he's so high, higher than he's been for the longest of times. "You're gonna fuck me, please, fuck. Fuck me." And he's holding him so tight, he can feel the muscle of Ben, Ben, beneath his shirt and his pants, and his hands are going everywhere because Michael wants him, and….

"Hey, hey," Ben says, and grabs Michael's palm away from his crotch because he's not Brian, and never will be. "Later, baby, not now. Not yet." But there's promise in his words, mixed in with concern, and want. "Not yet."

Michael nods just barely and leans his head to Ben's shoulder, because Ben keeps him safe, Ben looks after him and Ben is so good to him, and shit, what was Michael ever thinking, who the fuck is Brian, and what kind of stupid mess is this that Michael's gotten himself into? Shit, shit. "I love you," he's mumbling, maybe, "I fucking love you. I do."

He leans in and presses close, and Michael can see Emmett over Ben's shoulder, just barely, dancing with some hot young thing, arm in the air, the lights dancing over the leather and sequins of his outfit. Emmett looks heavenly, Michael thinks, and happy -- and, and over there is Ted, by the bar, leaning in close with some blond guy and smiling, talking quick; and the guy leans back and it's Blake, and they're all here, they're all back, and happy, and together.

"Hey," says a voice from behind, sharp and deep, and Michael turns awkwardly, a little unsteady on his feet. It's Brian, and there's two guys just behind him, hanging off of him and wanting him, and Michael isn't jealous of them, no, because they'll never know Brian quite the way he does. "Hey," Brian is saying, and he's got the little tube held up to the light, so that it flashes green, blue, pink, red. "You want some more?"

Ben says, "I don't think so," the same time Michael says, "Yes. Yes, please." Michael goes forward to take it and Ben's arm catches around his waist, but Michael just laughs, pushes him off and goes forward anyway. He holds Brian's hand between his sticky palms, and inhales deeply, feels it flashing behind his eyes, and it feels good.

Brian smiles at him, satisfied, and takes a hit himself. "Later, Mikey," he says, and then he's gone, and Michael's high, higher, soaring, and he feels beautiful and wanted, and he loves everyone so much he thinks his heart might burst.

Continued here.

Fanvid: Brian/Michael Friendship. Eluvium.

Sun, 03 Jun 2007 12:30:18 GMT

So I did it. I lost my mind enough to think that hey, making a video would be a really great idea! I, um, I don't even know what to say about this video, considering it's my first attempt at this kind of thing ever and therefore it is... not good. But we all have to start somewhere, right? (She says, nervously. Ah hem.) And hey, I can't wait to look back on this when I actually have developed some sort of skill/technique in doing this and cringe my guts out. Wahoo! \o/

Title: It doesn't really have one considering I so totally cannot give titles to things but, um, "Always Have" is cliched and overused enough to pass, right? Or... I don't know. Call it "Eluvium" after the artist. Pick your own name! Oh, fun times.
Song: "Perfect Neglect in a Field of Statues" by Eluvium. If you want it, just ask, and I'll upload it right away.
Pairing: Brian/Michael. (I know, most people hate it but - even if you dislike this ship intensely, I'm hopeful that you can maybe possibly find merit in the fact that this is a friendship vid, and so... yeah. *hopes* And people who like this pairing? Go you!)
General Story Arch/Theme: It follows the breakdown of their friendship in season 5. Will things ever be the same again?
Mood: Melancholy?
Comments/criticisms are more than welcome.

Download Link.

Media Post

Wed, 30 May 2007 20:34:32 GMT

To be updated at will. Or on a whim. Either or.

Downloads

Interviews:

Hal Sparks on Michael
Hal Sparks discussing the character of Michael and his favourite scenes from the show.

Hal Sparks on the Mike Bullard Show
Hal Sparks' band performs, followed by a short interview with Hal himself.

Michelle on Melanie
Michelle Clunie discussing the character of Melanie Markus.

Peter Paige on Open Mike
An interview with Peter Paige (Emmett Honeycutt).

Robert Gant on Ben
Robert Gant discussing the character of Ben Bruckner, and what the show has meant to him.

Robert Gant on the Sharon Osbourne Show
An interview with Robert Gant on, surprisingly, the Sharon Osbourne Show.

Links

Hal Sparks on The Mix Morning Show.
A recent interview with Hal Sparks.

Peter Paige demo reel.
A selection of clips showing Peter Paige at his finest, including scenes from Queer As Folk and Say Uncle.

Say Uncle Trailer.
The trailer for Peter Paige's film "Say Uncle".

More to be added when I have the time and/or inclination. It's a start! \o/